Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
Things in America have changed since I was a boy. We were feral children during Christmas breaks. We were dangerous. We lived without helmets. We had BB guns. We ate saturated fat. And we were never, ever inside.
Christmas supper. The little girl beside me ate ferociously as though she had not eaten in 13 years when in fact she had already eaten two breakfasts, one Christmas lunch, half a bag of tortilla chips, a quarter of a cheese log, and various holiday snacks which all featured onion dip as a main ingredient.
The young woman emailed me her story. She said she was lonely. She was 32 and single. Her therapist said she was depressed. He suggested medication. Then, her therapist asked whether she had plans for Christmas.
Thank you. That is the purpose of this column. I want to say “thanks.” I don’t know you, but I believe in the good you do.
Christmas Eve. Southeastern Kansas. The middle of nowhere. Kansas is one of those places that gets a bad rap. People speak of Kansas like it’s Death Valley, or the hindparts of Mars.
Granddaddy placed me on his knee, he fuzzed my hair and smoked his Bing Crosby pipe. The world smelled like Prince Albert in a can.
It was dark when we pulled up in the wilds of Locust Fork, Alabama. A big group of us. The small house stood in the country. I think the cows were watching us.
I remember the day we got married. I was a bundle of nerves. I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I just drove around town in my car.
The hospital room was decorated for Christmas. The young man was sitting in his bed, wired up to a horde of machines. The kid was watching something on the television mounted on the wall. Barely able to keep his eyes open. He was 8.
Winter. The year is 1949. The war has been over for a while, but it’s still fresh on everyone’s minds. Which is why people are having babies like crazy. War does that to people.
The truth is, I did not quit Facebook. I am in Facebook jail. This means that, among other things, whatever I post on Facebook is either deleted or suppressed so that only my uncle sees it.
It’s hard to choose my favorite Christmas movie. Each time I try to pick one, I’m afraid I’ll shoot my eye out.
I ran to the Christmas tree like a squirrel on illegal stimulants. Our tree was pitiful. Charlie Brown had nothing on us.
Charlie had been inside for 22 years. Nobody ever came to visit at Christmas. Never. Not even once. Sometimes he wondered if anyone remembered him.
Sean takes an unexpected trip and discovers that there is indeed a real life Santa Clause
I am in Facebook Jail. I don’t actually know what Facebook Prison is, but I’m in it. I feel a little like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke,” stuck in his little cell, except I don’t look like Paul Newman. I look like the love child between Danny Partridge and Eleanor Roosevelt.
